


Blood for my Pale Cheeks, Juice for my Parched Lips

by Estivate



Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Death Wish, Haunted House, Human AU, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Kinktober, M/M, Mind Manipulation, Past Child Abuse, Psychological Horror, Supernatural Elements, Tragedy, What a combination, vengeful ghost incubus prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-02 23:18:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16314569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Estivate/pseuds/Estivate
Summary: Under the strained flicker of the streetlamp, the house looks even worse off.Thor frowns, noticing the figure just then. There’s a youth leaning against the gate, head forlornly tilted up. Thor can’t see him too well, standing where he is just outside the halo of light, but he looks young.A creak of the wrought iron and he turns his face towards Thor.The youth is fine-boned, complexion pale enough to be ethereal, hair framing his face like part of the night itself, eyes peering up through lashes playing coy, and lips that glisten as if they’ve just been licked.He’s just Thor’s type.The boy cants his head in knowing, eyeing Thor up and down, surveying the decency of his leather shoe shine, the brand make of his suit, the material of his cuff links, the state of his tie, the tired and hungry expression on his face.He speaks in a low whisper, seductive despite his boyishness, “Let me take care of you.”





	Blood for my Pale Cheeks, Juice for my Parched Lips

 

 

At least the money was good.

 

That’s what Thor tells himself, looking at the numbers in his bank accounts and stock portfolios. Looking at numbers numbers numbers. Three screens full of them, eyes flitting between all: this column decreases while the other increases. Purchase bonds here, trade off commodities there, oh and what was it the secretary had said? That his coffee order was ready or was it his anniversary tonight? It better be coffee.

 

At least caffeine can still jolt his system. ‘ _Models and bottles_ ,’ he snorts, more like ‘ _spread sheet models and water bottles._ ’ No one parties like that anymore, not since the ’08 crash. No more parties according to upper management, not while they still had it better than most industry and strived to keep it that way. Markets could be awfully jumpy, and even when they weren’t they could nosedive. Everyone would best smash and grab while there was still money to be had.

 

You could never have enough zeros after a digit, unless of course, it was the only digit.

 

But boy would a column of zeros automatically make his life so much easier. For him at least. He might even get a day off in the event of a financial crash.

 

In the corner of his bloodshot eye, a number changes. They always do, for better or worse.

 

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

 

\---

 

The polarized glass makes it hard to pinpoint the time of day to Thor’s compromised circadian rhythms. No one ever seems to leave, but at some point, the constant characters go home for a fresh change of clothing. In his earliest years he would have done so right away when coffee got on his tie, but he wears dark ties now, and no one with their empty eyes takes care to note.

 

Other than Sif. Not that she notices the stain, but she nudges him to go home for the night.

 

Thor doesn’t know how she does it. All day in stilettos (as expected of corporate leg culture), back straight, slightly masculine blazers, meets all their company’s targets, and still has a sense for when to turn it in.

 

“You don’t want to end up like that dead intern at London branch’s Bank of America, Thor. Go home.”

 

The numbers changed, and they’ll still be changing by the time he gets back. Sif doesn’t have the kind of authority she does if others could tell her no. So he doesn’t.

 

He pops his vertebrae into their natural alignment when he leans back, grabs his suitcase, makes for the linoleum flooring hall, and punches the ground floor level at the elevators. He studies dispassionately the electronic display floor numbers as they countdown. Every digit composed of seven segments in the configuration of an eight: three horizontal four vertical: each segment changing in programmed combination until they represented the destination. Two digits to one, to one itself, to zero.

 

The pulley system slows to a halt and his stomach sinks, he groans, remembering: it had been his anniversary.

 

\---

 

He takes a different route tonight, a longer, winding route. On foot.

 

There were sixteen notifications on his phone. The phone that had been kept on silent. Thor doesn’t read the messages. He yawns into his hand instead. Maybe there’s a motel he can spend the night at. Come up with an excuse in the morning.

 

Thor’s not aware of when the downtown transitioned into the ghetto it is now. No one else is around on the street and his treads echo back to him, lonesome. For the most part it’s normally squalid enough, but for a house on the corner that is especially decrepit with age and neglect.

 

Under the strained flicker of the streetlamp, the house looks even worse off.

 

Thor frowns, noticing the figure just then. There’s a youth leaning against the gate, head forlornly tilted up. Thor can’t see him too well, standing where he is just outside the halo of light, but he looks young.

 

He’s wearing clothes that are slightly too big on his frame. They’re thin as well. On a cool fall evening like this, it shouldn’t be nearly enough, and yet the boy doesn’t shiver, doesn’t appear to be bothered in the slightest.

 

A creak of the wrought iron and he turns his face towards Thor.

 

The youth is fine-boned, complexion pale enough to be ethereal, hair framing his face like part of the night itself, eyes peering up through lashes playing coy, and lips that glisten as if they’ve just been licked.

 

He’s just Thor’s type.

 

The boy cants his head in knowing, eyeing Thor up and down, surveying the decency of his leather shoe shine, the brand make of his suit, the material of his cuff links, the state of his tie, the tired and hungry expression on his face.

 

He speaks in a low whisper, seductive despite his boyishness, “Let me take care of you.”

 

Finger tips graze down his forearm, pauses at the rolex on his wrist, before slipping into his hand. Those eyes beckon him forward.

 

“Come to my place.”

 

Thor swallows.

 

Together they cross the threshold of a cracked asphalt driveway, steps that groan under his weight, over the pained floorboards, and up the cramped stairwell. At the end of the short hall is a dimly lit room: odd that Thor had not noticed a light in any of the windows looking up at the house previous.

 

By pale lamplight he is guided to the edge of the bed’s stale mattress. Thor’s suitcase drops to the ground the same time the boy’s knees do.

 

“Been a while since I’ve seen the likes of you on this side of town.” he greets, before nuzzling his face against Thor’s crotch. “I like men with big suitcases full of cash and fat chequebooks. Won’t you let me work hard for the money?”

 

Thor lets out a shuddering groan and nods, fingers remembering his fly, unzipping it in a fumble. He’s painfully hard. It’s been so long. So many long nights lost to overtime.

 

The front slit of his briefs are parted and the boy’s breath hitches, smiling wide at the blood-filled organ before his face.

 

“Loki. To call me by while my mouth is occupied.” And then he swallows whole, no preamble. Thor’s buttocks clench and his hips jut forward. That mouth defied all logic the way it stretch around his girth and devoured his cock. He hums around it, nudging his nose even closer to the thatch of hair at the root. Thor doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone so voracious.

 

Loki holds it there – doesn’t even struggle, doesn’t choke. Then he pulls back, slowly, slowly, lips a subtle drag against the sealed suction of his mouth, all the way back up to the crown of the head, until the only thing connecting them is his tongue at the slit.

 

Then he plunges down again.

 

Thor barely has time to loosen his tie or unbutton his collar. He’s hypnotized by the way that mouth and throat work. It takes him several heartbeats to recognize his own voice, “Loki, Lo-ki. Lo—” Syllables leaving him in a strangle.

 

How was it even possible for a youth of (barely? hopefully?) eighteen to take him as skillfully as this?

 

The motions soon become slick, evidence oozing down that sharp chin more viscous than saliva, servicer slavering around his cock as if it were better than mother’s milkshake.

 

Thor should pull him off and ask for proof of age, consent to a clean bill from STDs, should…

 

Call Jane.

 

Get home.

 

Sleep.

 

Should…

 

Should stop lying to himself, as if he can still do anything of the sort that fell along rationality.

 

And so he let’s go, gives in to what feels good: pumping his hips, hand gripping Loki’s hair, head thrown back mouth agape and eye whites showing.

 

When Thor comes, his world goes dark.

 

\---

 

It returns to focus with a dull ache, hand rubbing at his temple. He’s at his desk again, somehow. In a different suit too. Strange. He doesn’t have a recollection of making it back home, but he supposes he must have.

 

He blinks rapidly. Squeezes his eyes. Chases his memory. Recollects.

 

Thor fishes his phone from his pocket. The newest message is one suggesting couple’s therapy. He’s guilty enough to text back, _Fine. You can arrange times that are convenient. Don’t wait up tonight._

 

The rest of the day, Thor looks at numbers without seeing them, does what his hindbrain is triggered to do when a certain number reaches or sinks down to a certain point, sells or buys accordingly on autopilot. When the night sets in, he leaves the office for the nearest cash withdrawal machine. Takes out in bills in hundreds, enough for tonight and the next few days at least. Makes his way by horny memory and stirring loins.

 

Loki is there waiting for him at the rusty iron wrought gates again, pale lamplight in the window signalling his availability for the night, lips curving in reservation for Thor.

 

He should take them somewhere better, which, going by the standards of this hovel, might as well be anywhere else. A hotel, a restaurant bathroom, his car, an alleyway. The spectral lamplight somehow renders all of it unimportant however, once he steps into the room. The room with a rickety bed, a plain desk and chair, and a lone source of lighting.

 

Loki doesn’t even make once bounce on the mattress before Thor is on top of him, going for his neck. “Whatever your rate, I’ll take you for the night, all the ways you’ll let me.”

 

Loki huffs a laugh before him, eyes daring. His eye catches on the hand Thor has braced on the side of Loki’s head. “I want you to work me open with your ring finger.” Like lightning, those words shoot straight down to his lower core, jagged and white hot.

 

Thor doesn’t hesitate to yank those loose pants off, baring the curve of his ass to the open air. He circles the hole as Loki keens into his touch, and when Thor inserts all the way to the metal band, he finds that it’s already been prepared. The slut. Gives a pleased spank to that rear.

 

“Thinking about this all day were you?”

 

Loki wiggles his tush backwards to meet the hand. Breathes out a lusty “Yes. You’re bigger than all of them though.”

 

Thor twists into him deeper, adding a second finger. The hole’s clearly been used before, the way it stretches readily upon scissoring, loosens for him so prettily. The image only makes Thor harder. Loki taking pricks during his lunch break. Loki swallowing strangers’ come while he’s taking notes in the board room. Loki being used, and then still having the libido to go some more throughout the night.

 

He grabs a handful of flesh and squeezes, growling “Who?”

 

Loki gasps, “My d-daddy. And all his friends – ones with money to spare.”

 

Thor drills in a third finger. “Any I might know?”

 

Loki chuckles. “Father used to fancy himself a businessman. You’d be amazed at the number of pedophiles in suits and waistcoats. Then as I grew older it became auto-shop repairmen, pawn shop owners, local high school football players.” Loki twists himself around and frees an arm to caress Thor’s face. “But I miss men like you. Men who were…” eyes glance down towards the fingers in his ass, “generous.”

 

Thor grants him a fourth.

 

Loki inhales sharply, and cranes his neck to kiss him, breaking it with the words “I’m ready.”

 

Single-handedly, Thor loosens his belt, shoves his pants to his knees, works himself free, and seats Loki’s open hole on his weeping cock. It doesn’t take long until Loki starts bouncing himself up and down. He brings both arms up to wrap around Thor’s shoulders, just as Thor’s arms make a cross over his back and shoulder blades.

 

They keep eye contact throughout. Thor entranced. Knuckles white with the vice grip where bone dug into his palm.

 

Loki’s smile goes from a sickle to a scythe.

 

The kisses. The friction. The heat. The way he moves with utter abandon. Thor lets himself be milked over and over into the night. Loki cleans him up with his mouth, watches in satisfaction as the spend runs down his leg when he unclenches and doesn’t let that go to waste either.

 

Perhaps it’s a neighbor’s kid, but somewhere, distantly, in the ungodly hours of the night Thor detects the sound of a child weeping before his fifth orgasm rips through him with a shout.

 

\---

 

As depraved as it is, Thor now has something to look forward to at the end of his work days. It doesn’t involve the traditional home-cooked meal or an evening at the bar. It takes place in a dilapidated house on the corner of shanty town. Pale light at the window guiding his way.

 

The front door swings open at a touch, the doorknob having broken off long ago. The yellowed white paint flecks of the floorboard flake off where he steps, outlined in extending mould along the edges. Thor does his best to ignore all of it. At least the room where Loki stays is merely depressingly bland.

 

Before reaching the stairs however, his shoe catches on something. An empty vodka bottle. How strange. Thor rolls it into the shadows by the side of his foot. It clinks upon meeting something. More strewn bottles when Thor squints.

 

He scoffs and continues up when he feels a chill go through him, steps where he was about to, gait audible until the top of stairwell, like someone who had been there before him and he was merely echoing its movements. The light contained by the closed door spills open by a hand that isn’t his, though he follows its enticement all the same.

 

Loki lies on his stomach, dressed in a schoolgirl uniform. Thor salivates inside his mouth at the sight. Loki gestures come hither to him by leaning back on his elbows, legs propped up invitingly along the short skirt. He spies panties underneath and follows by ducking his head inside. Loki moans in girlish falsetto, pushing his head in deeper, spine arching up.

 

Thor ravages him, never noticing that his grip leaves no bruises, that he spills impossibly frequently, an endless fount until day breaks.

 

The next day, as Sif asks after his health and the amount of sleep he’s getting, Thor smiles at her blearily, skin feeling tight against the stretch of his own face.

 

\---

 

He understands that the entire ordeal is strange. Unbecoming. Non-sustainable. His wife looks at him with resignation in her eyes – but at least they don’t have any children. It’s getting harder to keep track of the numbers. Thor wonders if he doesn’t sometimes sleep with his eyes open and red before the computers. He wasn’t exactly the paragon of health before, given the time he’s spent with this company, but now he feels well and truly tired. Energy drinks don’t help, and neither do espressos, but Thor downs them like the cheap fuel it is, running on fumes. Continuing to run on fumes.

 

Must make targets. He slipped on his last one.

 

Divine the markets. Turn a profit. Make sure there’s enough cash in the bank account to rob the less fortunate twenty lifetimes over.

 

Numbers, numbers, numbers.

 

So many numbers.

 

He pinches the bridge of his nose.

 

It’d be much easier if they all tumbled to zero.

 

\---

 

Despite the energy deficit he racks up during the day, absurd reserves of it return to him in that sad house on the corner. Old houses always reacted strangely, sounded off, unsettled. Thor pauses at the doorway to Loki’s room, knowing that nothing will prevent him from entering and yet.

 

From the other side he hears a pained gasp following the sound of someone being slapped. There’s a stunned pause before a short scuffle, and then something hits the wall, an awful lot like a body slumping to the floor…

 

Yet when Thor opens the door, there is nothing, and Loki is smiling at him, silent, waiting.

 

Loki peers over his shoulder, pretending to be surprised, face made up in smeared lipstick and eyeliner like he had just finished servicing another patron.

 

A sound from inside his head, but it’s Loki’s voice. Laughing at him from within. Taunts him like harlots, reverberates like damnation, ringing like carillon bells.

 

It only quiets when Thor rubs the red off from that mouth onto his prick head, before pushing in.

 

\---

 

The ordinances of the day now seem fleeting, a waking dream to be passed through, before he returns to the rotting steps again, before he pushes past the flimsy door hanging on by its last jamb, before he ascends towards that bewitching sickly sliver of light, before he gives himself over to the host within, gladly surrendering his fate for the night.

 

He fucks in flashes, images and sensory detection superimposed before him.

 

Loki is wearing a fishnet top and a black cropped tank underneath, hand parting one ass cheek, bottom pert and adorned in pantyhose. The material is so insubstantial that Thor just rips a hole through it, lining up to ram his length in.

 

_Loki is unconscious and naked, bruises in different sizes of hand shapes cover the inside of his thighs and hips. His head lies face down limp on the pillow. Someone has been brutal and intends on being more brutal still, tugging out their cock and positioning themselves against his entrance._

 

Thor moves against him bent over from behind. Loki pushes to meet him on each thrust, moaning wild and desperate, this bed their domain.

 

_He moves against him like a dog mounting a bitch. An unresponsive bitch. Probably passed out drunk like the whore’s father downstairs, nursing bottles on the couch._

 

The only sound is the harsh heaving of breaths, the wet smacking of skin on skin, whimpers and begs, sweetly so sweetly.

 

_The only sound is his own ragged breath, the sticky impact of a good fuck, oh if only the fag was still capable of begging – it would have sounded so sweet._

 

It smells like musk and cheap perfume, sweat and spend.

 

_It smells like piss and stale jizz, smoke and booze._

 

He comes on the stark sheets, white on white.

 

_He comes on the dirty sheets, white on red._

 

Loki tastes the air like how a snake samples the scent of warm blood. Ready for another. “Come now Thor.”

 

_Loki doesn’t move, eyes closed and hair spilling around his head. He got what was coming._

 

Someone breaks open the door downstairs. Shattering glass. Slurs and jeers. Pounding on walls. Men laughing. A child crying. Spare change hitting the floor.

 

Thor is thrusting, thrusting, thrusting.

 

Coming, coming, and coming.

 

\---

 

“Thor!”

 

Someone breaks him from his spellbound reverie. His legs moved unbidden, making across the street. “I’m about to head out too, let me join you.” It’s Sif.

 

He nods dumbly, forgetting social decorum momentarily. Sif can read an atmosphere however and lets the sound of her heels fill the space. Steady. Patient.

 

“You could at least take the magical roundabout. It’s getting really cold now. Walking will be difficult once snow falls.”

 

Thor makes a sound of affirmation, thinking about what Sif will walk to work in when ice layers the ground.

 

She sighs. “I’m worried for you Thor. There’s burn out, and then there’s _burn out_.”

 

It’s a strangely clear night. Faint pinpricks and their light blur as elongated needles, matched by a cat’s eye moon, halo dipping oblong. Thor wonders if this is how a dying star feels.

 

“Look, it’s not my place, but I’m really sorry to hear about the difficulties your marriage is having.”

 

Oh yeah. Those. When had he even last talked with Jane? When was the therapy session? Had he missed it? Again?

 

“I’ll speak to the boss tomorrow and buy you a week’s paid leave. Get some rest.”

 

He’s grateful enough to at least thank her.

 

Together they walk down the street, eventually reaching the house on the corner. Thor stops to gaze towards the light at the window. Sif looks to where he’s looking. “A bit out of place isn’t it? It’s been abandoned for a while now.”

 

For the first time since her company, she has Thor’s full attention.

 

“I remember at the time it was all over the local news. A gruesome murder. The father was a desperate alcoholic and the son was forced early into prostitution. It ended badly, as these things usually do. Was it a possessive stalker, or just the wrong person with a disposable problem on their hands? No one really knows.”

 

She runs her hand through her hair. “Too many human samples on the scene, and this kind of case doesn’t tend to garner public sympathy.”

 

Then she takes his hand in hers and guides them away. “No one’s lived there since.”

 

Thor signs into a luxurious hotel that night and falls asleep before his head even hits the pillow. Sleeping well into the afternoon of the next day, or perhaps it’s even the day after that.

 

He feels a little better. Feels like he might be able to work efficiently enough again. All those numbers, expecting him back.

 

Thor puts on his coat and goes for a walk just as the sun creeps down.

 

\---

 

He arrives just as the street lamp flickers on. The last of the season’s hapless moths flock to its welcome, to be burned by the light before falling as winged husks on the ground.

 

Thor holds his breath, noticing the figure just then. Loki is leaning against the gate, head resting on his arms. Thor can see him, is the only one that seems to be able to. He looks young, but healthier.

 

He’s still not wearing enough for the weather, but he doesn’t shiver, isn’t bothered in the slightest.

 

A creak of the wrought iron and he smiles at Thor.

 

Loki was from the fey, complexion fair enough to maybe spare him from his fate, hair dark as dissolution herself, eyes something tragic like death in the water, and lips that part raw red waiting to be kissed.

 

He’s just Thor’s type.

 

By pale window’s lamplight they go.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you write to the soundtrack of Hans Zimmer's - The Ring. Also Loki as a sexy ghost that spun way out of control into something darker.
> 
> I will one day write something wholesome, but not while there should be spooks in October. 
> 
> Were you scared, or horny, or both? Let me know in the comments~


End file.
